


At The Inn

by myhamsterisademon



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Praise Kink, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 05:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19823902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: “You know, my dearest friend,” Athos said, once the wretched innkeeper had left them in a flourish of blessings strangely mingled with half-muttered curses, “there is still a small vial of olive oil left. I had intended to keep it to tend to Grimaud’s wounds, but, while you were discussing with our honoured landlord, I happened to think of another edifying way we could use the oil.”





	At The Inn

“You know, my dearest friend,” Athos said, once the wretched innkeeper had left them in a flourish of blessings strangely mingled with half-muttered curses, “there is still a small vial of olive oil left. I had intended to keep it to tend to Grimaud’s wounds, but, while you were discussing with our honoured landlord, I happened to think of another edifying way we could use the oil.”  
  
“Oh?” d’Artagnan replied, arching an eyebrow and barely holding back an amused smile. “I do hope your idea coincides with mine,” he continued, half-serious, as he went to sit on the bed and crossed his legs.  
  
“I think it does,” Athos said, slowly, bringing one of his hands to rest on d’Artagnan’s thigh. The lad could feel the warmth of the skin seeping even through the thin fabric of his trousers, and, young as he was, he could not help but twitch already, even just at the _thought_ of what that hand could do to him.  
  
“Show me, then,” d’Artagnan said, a little breathless, and Athos smiled indulgently, sliding up the bedding towards d’Artagnan.  
  
He cupped the young man’s jaw and for a moment d’Artagnan watched those deep eyes -- so often sad, so often clouded by too much wine -- before giving in to what his heart longed for. He lunged forward and, before he could count to three, his lips were on Athos’, one of his hands already at his waist, holding him as if _life_ depended on it -- and, as Athos’ tongue slid into his mouth, as he brought his hands to d’Artagnan’s hair and tugged delicately, as d’Artagnan arched his neck with a moan while Athos kissed, nipped and licked at it -- he realised how _terribly_ he had missed the man and how _achingly_ he needed him, in every sense of the word.  
  
A half-hour later Athos had him on his back, legs spread wide open, two oiled fingers thrusting easily into him -- and it was _ridiculous_ how unashamed d’Artagnan felt, fucking himself on Athos’ hand, moaning loudly and openly, while Athos whispered filthy praise in his ear, while his fingers brushed that spot inside him that sent sparks flying through his eyes.   
  
Athos hadn’t even touched his cock, and yet he was rock-hard, and he was perfectly aware that he could easily come untouched, just from Athos’ fingers twisting and thrusting and fucking him, just from his thumb circling his rim, just from the words he was murmuring, his voice throaty and thick with arousal.   
  
D’Artagnan brought one of his hands to his cock, desperate for friction, for touch, for release -- but he knew Athos had other plans, because the older man grabbed his hand and, roughly but not unkindly, pinned it above d’Artagnan’s head on the pillow. The lad groaned, because Athos had suddenly pushed a third finger inside him, stretching him a little more, a little wider, and all the while he never stopped talking.  
  
“You are so good,” he was whispering, as he took one of his legs and hooked it above his waist, “you’re taking my fingers _so_ well, sweetheart, are you going to take my cock too? I know you can, my love, I know you can. Do you want to know how I know that? Do you want to?” he asked, and twisted his fingers once, twice, thrice, d’Artagnan bucking his hips to meet the thrusts and almost sobbing by how _good_ it felt. “Do you want to know?” he repeated, kissing his lips, licking inside his mouth.  
  
D’Artagnan simply nodded, incapable of forming words, and he moaned higher than ever when Athos pulled his fingers out and rubbed against his rim, only to thrust his fingers all the way up to the second knuckles in one smooth movement. He moaned again, just because he knew Athos enjoyed the sound, and bucked his hips once more.   
  
“Because you are _so_ good, darling,” Athos then said, “and I know you want to please me, don’t you? Is that what you want?”  
  
D’Artagnan opened his eyes, stared back at him, and nodded again. Athos smiled, ducked to kiss him on the lips and whispered in his ear:

“Good boy.”  
  
  
  
“What is this? Three more francs?”   
  
“Why, yes, Monsieur the Musketeer, they are necessary, more than the rest,” the innkeeper replied, an uncomfortably confident smile spreading on his lips.  
  
“And why so? Haven’t you been repaid enough, you filthy leech?” d’Artagnan answered back, all too ready to draw his sword again.   
  
“It is for the bed, Monsieur,” the innkeeper said. D’Artagnan went silent. “The bed and my discretion, my good Monsieur.”  
  
The sum was handed over with a muttered curse, and was received with a graciously satisfied smile.


End file.
